The Domesday Books (2)
by ThePet
Summary: Another installment of the exploits of defective detective Sebastian Domesday, as his small friend Mulberry chronicles Sebastian's chaotic collaboration with fellow loony detective, Sherlock Holmes. Some cheeky, adult humour
1. Default Chapter

Prologue  
  
When I wrote my book chronicling the deservedly terrible fate of that criminal mastermind, the Mad Minge (who is not, I can safely affirm, alive and well and living in Droitwich) I had thought it to be the only piece I would ever present to the public. However, fate has farted in my face once more, and I yet again find myself on the breadline and having to write more stories in the hope of getting together some cash.  
  
To make things totally and utterly clear, the previous story was set in 1895. This story took place in 1888 unless the previous one came first, in that case, consider it to be 1889. It really doesn't make a blether of difference anyway. Pick a year. Go ahead.  
  
After the publication of my little pamphlet, I wired my friend Sebastian Domesday in the hope of getting some feedback about the piece. I received two telegrams, one from Domesday, one from his once hated rival (and now his best friend - well after me, of course) Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Sebastian's said:  
  
MULBERRY STOP THIS IS A LOAD OF CRAP STOP WHAT WERE YOU THINKING STOP FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP  
  
And the second, from Mr. Holmes, said,  
  
MULBERRY STOP THIS IS DREADFUL STOP WHAT ON EARTH COULD YOU HAVE BEEN THINKING OF STOP HOW DARE YOU IMPLY ANY KIND OF SEXUAL DEVIANCY ON THE PARTS OF MY FRIEND AND MYSELF STOP BY THE WAY PLEASE ASK WATSON TO BRING LESTRADE'S HANDCUFFS NEXT TIME HE VISITS STOP  
  
Nevertheless, despite this bad reception, I have once again decided to enthral the world with the doings of that famously bad detective, Sebastian Domesday. Here follows the exciting narration of Sebastian's first ever case, kept quiet for all these years for political reasons.  
  
  
  
It was as usual a cold and frosty November morning, and I was sitting at the breakfast table at 227d Baker Street with my friend, Mr Sebastian Domesday. It was the year 1885, the year Sebastian decided to become a detective, having noted the brilliance and bankbook of our near neighbour Sherlock Holmes, and the fact that despite being a sworn misogynist he got a lot of attention from ladies.  
  
As I enjoyed the kippers, goose's crop and curried speckled band prepared by our delightful landlady Mrs. Crudley, Sebastian ignored me and read the paper while his dog, a placid foxhound named Sherlock, ate his breakfast (for those of you who remember my first book, at this stage Sebastian had not yet acquired his smelly but beloved basset hound, Moriarty).  
  
"Down, boy!" Sebastian exclaimed. I glanced up in consternation.  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"I wasn't talking to you, Mulberry. Have you seen this?"  
  
"You've tried that one already!" I retorted. "If it's the Eiffel Tower again I don't want to see, thank you very much."  
  
"I was referring to the papers, dear fellow. Look!" And he thrust a newspaper under my nose. I read:  
  
Sherlock Holmes does it again!  
  
Local amateur detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes has added to his current record of  
  
brilliance. To the delight of the general public, Mr. Holmes, with the aid of his  
  
'friend' Dr. James Wilson, a dog named Toby and a number of Street Arabs of  
  
undesirable appearance, has succeeded in catching the terrible Oxford Street burglar,  
  
famous for his cunning removal of ladies' underwear from linen baskets. After  
  
naming the thief in a dramatic manner while dressed as a small Dachshund, Mr. Holmes  
  
proceeded to discover a new chemical, several non-Polyphonic motets of Lassus, and a  
  
continent, before stunning the crowd by inventing and performing Mendelssohn's Lieder. Mr. Holmes would like it known that all official credit should be made to  
  
Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Well? What do you think of that?"  
  
"He sounds like a very clever gentleman."  
  
"Yes, yes, but imagine the size of his package!" I was appalled.  
  
"I'd really rather not, Sebastian!" I exclaimed, scandalised. "What on earth would I want to do that for?"  
  
"His wallet, Mulberry! He must be making thousands. Lord above! And here am I, sitting in a dinghy apartment with you, a table, some curried snake and a dog."  
  
"I thought you loved your dog."  
  
"I do love my dog!" He cried, embracing the foxhound adoringly, and kissing him on the nose. "That isn't the point. You see, we could be in the money, Mulberry, if I became a detective."  
  
"A brilliant plan, my friend, with but two flaws."  
  
"Name 'em."  
  
"Right. One, we have no clients."  
  
"Tosh! We can get some."  
  
"Two, you are a prat." This second difficulty was more problematic and harder to surmount. Sebastian thought.  
  
"But except for that, it's a reasonable idea?"  
  
"Well, yes, I suppose so." I replied very doubtfully, nibbling a bit of kipper.  
  
"What we need is credibility, Mulberry. We need to solve a vital case."  
  
"So you're saying essentially that in order to be detectives we need to solve a case."  
  
"Quite."  
  
"And you don't need to be a detective in order to solve a case?"  
  
"No, no, of course not. One merely requires contacts."  
  
"Contacts?"  
  
"Yes, some admiring friend already well established in the field."  
  
"Sherlock Holmes!" I cried.  
  
"Precisely." Sebastian beamed at me. "I'm sure he'll welcome the opportunity for a bit of help on the sticky ones."  
  
With the best of intentions, therefore, we presented ourselves at 221B Baker Street that evening. A weird and bloodcurdling wailing came from within. Standing outside the door - the housekeeper, landlady, and cook was nowhere to be seen - we heard a voice say,  
  
"What on earth have you done to the cat, Holmes?"  
  
"That was Paganini's first concerto!" Came the hurt response.  
  
"Do they get better as they go along?" Asked the first voice. We exchanged glances and hovered uncertainly. Presently the wailing came again, somewhat more tuneful than before.  
  
"It's getting better, old chap." Said the voice.  
  
"As a matter of fact, I was treading on the cat. Come in!" For we had finally mustered the courage to knock. We were insufficiently brave to enter, though, and continued to wait awkwardly outside the door. Finally it opened and a very tall thin man not wearing a deerstalker hat peered out.  
  
"Hello?" He demanded in a tall thin voice.  
  
"Ah, yes, hello, we've come to see you."  
  
"You are a client?"  
  
"No, we are not."  
  
"Well, who are you then?" Said the gentleman impatiently.  
  
"Well, I'm Mulberry and this is Sebastian." An irritated pause, if indeed a pause can be irritated, followed.  
  
"Well?" He said eventually.  
  
"We need to offer some form of personal introduction." I whispered. Sebastian nodded.  
  
"We know Dr. Watson." He said.  
  
"Really? From where?"  
  
"We play billiards with him." To my astonishment Mr. Holmes lunged forward and snapped a pair of handcuffs on Sebastian's wrist.  
  
"Impostor!" He cried. Sebastian looked bewildered.  
  
"No, look, wait, we do know him, really. Uh.we lied about the billiards but.in reality.er."  
  
"I'm Tadpole Phelps!" I cried. Sebastian nodded in relief.  
  
"Yes, so am I."  
  
"Oh very well then." Said our gangly host, and stepped aside. "Watson? A couple of your patients from the asylum are here."  
  
The pleasantly fluffy military type gentleman who wasn't quite so small and was considerably thinner than we had expected looked at us over his moustache. He got up politely and offered a plate.  
  
"I'm afraid I've never seen them before, but do sit down anyway, gentlemen, and help yourself to curried botulism."  
  
"Ah, no thank you. Actually we came to offer our services to Mr. Holmes, because he is so famous and we admire him so much." Said Sebastian, beaming sickeningly upon his hero. Mr. Holmes appeared quite alarmed.  
  
"How dare you infer.I mean imply.such a thing! I have no desire for that kind of service." He began to hustle us towards the door.  
  
"No, no! We want to help you catch criminals!"  
  
"Oh!" There was yet another, difficult pause. "Hum." Said Sherlock Holmes. "Of course, that is what you meant. I was just testing. Sit down, gentlemen. Watson!"  
  
"Yes, Holmes?"  
  
"Fetch these men a drink, and while you're at it clean my boots, send a telegram to Shrewsbury, and investigate the disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax in Switzerland."  
  
"Right-ho." Said Watson cheerfully, and left. He returned ten minutes later with a clock, some cheese and an extra bank account, and also some whisky.  
  
"And what about your dog, which has recently arrived after following you up our seventeen steps?" Asked Holmes.  
  
"Oh, he'll have a bowl of water, won't you, darling?" Sherlock the foxhound barked agreement and licked his master enthusiastically.  
  
"'At's a good boy!" Sebastian crooned. "He's got a lovely licky tongue, haven't you, Sherlock?"  
  
"That's enough of that!" Cried Mr. Holmes, and punched him.  
  
"I was talking to the dog!" Sebastian exclaimed, rubbing his jaw.  
  
"Fair enough." Said our host, peering suspiciously at his namesake. "Now then," he went on, accepting a glass of whisky from his faithful assistant, "you say you want to work with me. I work alone."  
  
"Except for Watson."  
  
"Like I said," responded the detective dryly, "I work alone." I winced sympathetically at this put down; Dr. Watson looked as though he was about to burst into tears.  
  
"Oh, sorry, Watson. I forgot you were there."  
  
"He's always doing that." Said the doctor to me, in a hurt tone. "Once, when I was hiding behind his bed, he completely forgot my presence until after the Inspector arrived."  
  
"Ah.what were you doing behind his bed?"  
  
"Oh, well, we had a visitor come, you see." Sebastian blinked.  
  
"Ah.and the Inspector?"  
  
"He came as well."  
  
"A satisfying occasion for all then."  
  
"Indeed." Holmes agreed, "especially me, after being in bed for three days with only Mrs. Hudson to fulfil my wants." This seemed unlikely. I had seen Mrs Hudson.  
  
"Couldn't The Woman oblige?" Sebastian asked tactlessly. To our astonishment Mr. Holmes gave a shriek and leapt behind the sofa.  
  
"A woman!? Where?!"  
  
"Steady on, old chap." Cried Watson soothingly. "Here, have some drugs. Better?" He turned to us. "Don't pay any attention, he'll be fine in a moment. He has a morbid terror of women, you see, the tragic result of being savaged by one as a baby."  
  
"But Irene Adler?"  
  
"Was a male transvestite."  
  
"But the King of Bohemia?"  
  
"Was, in fact, the Queen of Bohemia. That was the scandal."  
  
"Oh." We were somewhat nonplussed. Holmes, meanwhile, seemed to have recovered, and emerged sheepishly from his hiding-place.  
  
"Baa." He said. "What were we talking about?"  
  
"Oh, God." Sebastian muttered to me. "We've allied ourselves with a certified loony."  
  
"I heard that!" Retorted the great detective. "My eccentricities happen to be fascinating and charming, thank you very much. They are also entirely necessary to ensure my literary immortality. Well, that and an enormous, luminous, scene-stealing dog. Now would you please pass me my pipe which is placed eccentrically in the toast rack."  
  
"Certainly." Said Sebastian, rising. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you meditating or disputing?"  
  
"Both. I am also simultaneously conversing didactically. It is a three- pipe problem."  
  
"What is?"  
  
"The foul murder of Sir Bellamy Trouser-Press St. Stanley Boot, a famous politician. If you are willing to work fifteen hours a day, and employ the following methods: no food, smoke shag and Street Arabs, then you are welcome to help me in this baffling case." There was plainly something wrong with the grammar of this last sentence.  
  
"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm not sure I caught all that. Should there have been a comma after 'smoke'?"  
  
"Or perhaps the words 'and' and 'shag' should be transposed?" Suggested Sebastian. Mr. Holmes punched him.  
  
"Or you could insert 'Watson' between the two." He added, undeterred. Dr. Watson punched him, then immediately turned in his stethoscope for violating the Hippocratic oath.  
  
"I assure you that we are up to the task." I said.  
  
"Excellent!" But there are several criteria you must fulfil first. Do you either of you have a deerstalker hat?"  
  
"No."  
  
"They will be supplied. But only in the country. Are you good at boxing?"  
  
"No."  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh, well, no matter. Can you transfix a pig with a single blow from a harpoon?"  
  
"Ah.probably not."  
  
"Excellent! Then you are hired."  
  
"Marvellous. Let's get going at once, shall we?" Holmes withdrew a Bradshaw and glanced through the pages.  
  
"There is a train to Sussex in twenty minutes and I'll explain on the way. Come, Watson." The detective cried, and punched Sebastian on his way out.  
  
"Prevention is better than cure." He explained, when I looked at him askance.  
  
"Fair enough." I replied, and we set off for the train station, and Sussex.  
  
As we rattled along in our first class carriage, Mr. Holmes explained the details of the case to us while Dr. Watson read a yellow-backed novel.  
  
"You see, Sir Bellamy has been murdered."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Yes." And that seemed to be the end of it.  
  
"Who then is your client?"  
  
"Sir Bellamy."  
  
"No, I mean, the person who asked you to look into the case."  
  
"Sir Bellamy. He was my client before he died."  
  
"That isn't a very good start is it?" Mr. Holmes shrugged.  
  
"Well, we can at least find out who killed him, and bring the man to justice, or, more likely, send him abroad somewhere with our best wishes. I have arranged to have my older, cleverer, fatter brother Mycroft airlifted to the scene of the crime. He rarely goes anywhere on his own initiative, except the British government and his gentlemen's club where everyone speaks Welsh."  
  
As promised, the enormous Mycroft Holmes was waiting for us on the platform, looking rather annoyed and holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup of tea in another. He was sitting in his armchair. It was a sign of Mr. Holmes' brilliance that he was able to invent the helicopter and therefore have his brother transported to us from the midst of his club.  
  
"Ah, Mycroft! You have not had too long a wait, I trust?"  
  
"I have been here for ten minutes and fifty seconds. Who are your friends, the idiot and the small gentleman?"  
  
"The small gentleman is Mr. Mulberry."  
  
"And the idiot?"  
  
"He's talking to you, Watson." Hissed Sebastian. The doctor glared at him.  
  
"This is Sebastian Domesday." He said firmly, to Mycroft Holmes.  
  
"Hello, I'm a detective." Said Sebastian.  
  
"Really? Then prove it by making brilliant deductions."  
  
"Ah.you have a silly name." The older and fatter Holmes brother was considerably unimpressed.  
  
"I am considerably unimpressed." He said coldly, and took a pinch of snuff. He offered the box to his brother.  
  
"Thanks, I have my own." Responded Holmes the younger, and took out of his pocket a silver case which did, indeed, contain a powdery white substance.  
  
"This is Sherlock." Said Sebastian. Mycroft looked puzzled.  
  
"Yes, I do recognise my own brother, thank you."  
  
"No, no. The dog."  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"This is my dog, Sherlock."  
  
"You told me already."  
  
"Woof!" Said the dog.  
  
"No, no, I was talking to the fat one."  
  
"I'm Mycroft."  
  
"Yes, yes, I know, what I am trying to tell you is that this is my dog, whose name is Sherlock."  
  
"Oh!" Exclaimed Myroft. "Hello, Sherlock."  
  
"Hello." Said his brother, waving.  
  
"What?" said Dr. Watson, who hadn't been listening. Sebastian sighed.  
  
"It doesn't matter." Mycroft meanwhile had levered himself out of the armchair with the help of his brother and a shoehorn.  
  
"Now then, Sherlock." Began the older brother.  
  
"Woof!"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"No, not."  
  
"I thought you were."  
  
"I was talking to Sherlock."  
  
"Woof!"  
  
"No, I meant."  
  
"Woof!"  
  
"No, I mean Sherlock."  
  
"Woof?"  
  
"What!?"  
  
"What?" Said Dr. Watson.  
  
"What?" Said Holmes, thoroughly confused. There was a long pause. Finally Mycroft spoke.  
  
"Sherlock, we should."  
  
"Woof!"  
  
"Oh for God's sake!" Thundered Holmes, aggravated. "Can't you just call me something else?"  
  
"Rasputin, we should get over to the crime scene as quickly as possible, before blundering local detectives destroy all the evidence. I myself will return to London after food and sleep at the nearest comfortable hotel."  
  
An hour later found us in a dinghy inn with sheep at the front door, a mile and a half from the crime scene, Boot House. Since it was rapidly becoming late, we decided to turn in, and investigate the crime in the morning. After a large plate of curried leprechaun, we were given a flearidden double bedded room; Holmes constructed a sort of divan out of cushions and Mycroft, and settled down to fill the room with smoke until morning. Sebastian and his foxhound climbed into one bed, and Dr. Watson and I into another, much to our mutual embarrassment. I turned off the light.  
  
"Goodnight, Sebastian."  
  
"Goodnight, Mulberry."  
  
"Goodnight, Dr. Watson."  
  
"Goodnight, Mr. Mulberry."  
  
"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"Goodnight, Mulberry." Said the brothers simultaneously.  
  
"Goodnight, Watson."  
  
"Goodnight, Holmes."  
  
"G'night, John-Boy."  
  
"Goodnight, Domesday."  
  
"Goodnight, Mycroft."  
  
"Goodnight, Sherlock."  
  
"Woof!"  
  
"Oh for God's sake."  
  
"I beg your pardon. Goodnight, Rasputin."  
  
A pause, filled with sighs as everyone settled down to sleep.  
  
"Mr. Mulberry." Said Dr Watson after a moment.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Is that you licking my left ear?"  
  
"No, I think it must be Sherlock."  
  
"Stop that, Holmes."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Goodnight."  
  
Apart from Mr. Holmes the Younger, who spent the night smoking while sitting on his brother, everyone slept well and awoke refreshed in the morning. As the grey light of dawn filtered into the room, we became aware of the extraordinary squalor of the place and determined to leave quickly. After completing our respective toilets we spent some thirty minutes levering Mycroft to his feet, then departed briskly for Boot House, leaving the older, fatter Holmes behind.  
  
"This is the place." Holmes announced, leaping over the wall, crawling under some conifers and ringing the doorbell. A stereotypical rural maid answered the door.  
  
"'Oo may Oi say is callin', zur?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?" Asked the detective. He was apparently not afraid of working class women.  
  
"'Oo may Oi say."  
  
"Who."  
  
"Zur?"  
  
"'Who' is calling."  
  
"Come in then, Mr. Who."  
  
"No, no. You say 'Who' is calling, there is a 'H' sound."  
  
"'Who' is callin'."  
  
"Very good. 'How now brown cow'."  
  
"How now brown cow."  
  
"'The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.'"  
  
"The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain."  
  
"By George, I think she's got it!" Exclaimed Holmes. "Now go to the master of the house, scruffy but admirable peasant lass, and tell him that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and some colleagues from London who are less great have arrived." There was a pause.  
  
"I'm sorry, zur." Said the maid. "I can't be doin' tha'."  
  
"Why not?" Demanded Holmes imperiously. "You are not paid to be insolent to visitors, young lady! Inform the master of the house of our arrival immediately."  
  
"E's dead, zur." Holmes looked annoyed.  
  
"That is very careless of him." He muttered. "And most inconvenient. We are here to investigate the murder of.oh." A sigh. "Tell the mistress we are here."  
  
"Very good, Mr. 'olmes."  
  
"Holmes."  
  
"Zur?"  
  
"Oh, forget it."  
  
We eventually got past the infuriating maid and found ourselves in Sir Bellamy's bedroom, where the dastardly deed had apparently taken place. An elderly four-poster bed with the curtains drawn around it, a desk, bedside table and small cupboard which proved to contain a plate of curried Scotsman - a midnight snack, no doubt - made up the room. The body was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Aha!" Cried Sherlock Holmes. "What do you make of this, Domesday?" A pause. "Well?" Sebastian hummed and hawed; he trotted around the room on all fours; muttered, whistled, sighed, gasped, whimpered, screamed and fell on his face at my feet.  
  
"Quick, Watson, quick!" Holmes cried. "The man is having a fit!"  
  
"No, no it's alright." Said Sebastian, picking himself up. "That was just my investigative method." Holmes scowled at this immature and unnecessarily extravagant manner of detecting.  
  
"Well?" He demanded. "After all that, what have you deduced?" Sebastian cleared his throat self-importantly.  
  
"Well, I've made several important observations and I do believe I've solved the case." An incredulous snort from Holmes. "Point one," began Sebastian, "the absence of a body, or indeed any indication of murder (that's point two). Point three, the absence of any evidence that a murderer has been in the room. Point Four, the absence of a motive. Conclusion: Sir Bellamy has not been murdered and is, in fact, still alive, hiding in some special secret place in order to frame some chap for murder." He smiled at Holmes cockily.  
  
"Do you have anything to add, sir?"  
  
"Let us take your points one by one. Watson?" The doctor came to attention as Holmes began to tick off the points (punctuating each by slapping Sebastian about the head).  
  
"Point one." Dr Watson pulled open the bed curtains with a flourish. Inside was the horribly bloody body of a dead man, clearly Sir Bellamy.  
  
"Points two and three." Dr Watson pointed with his stick to a huge bloodstain in the middle of the carpet; bloody footprints made their way to, and out of, the window, while a note pinned to the frame said 'You had it coming you pompous fat git'.  
  
"Point four. This one I will handle without the exemplary assistance of my dear Watson." Sebastian snickered and Holmes punched him. "Sir Bellamy was, in fact, an adulterer, a lecher, a ravisher of women, A Don Juan, a Lothario; some people called him the space cowboy, some people called him the gangster of love. On top of all this, he was a joker, a smoker, and a midnight toker. As well as having left one hundred thousand pounds in his will to a notable thief and blackguard by the name of Silver Smith." Holmes paused for breath, then finished triumphantly,  
  
"Conclusion: this is a case of black murder most foul!" Sebastian was crestfallen; he turned to his dog for solace. Sherlock was busy nibbling the toes of the dead man.  
  
"Stop doing that, Sherlock, you might catch something." Said my friend. Mr. Holmes, needless to say, punched him.  
  
"Ow!" Cried Sebastian, indignantly. He was most upset. "Thank you very much. Are you sure you wouldn't like to kick me in the head for variety?"  
  
"Perhaps later." Said Holmes pleasantly. And we set off back for the hotel.  
  
The reader is perhaps wondering whether at any time in this case Sebastian excelled himself, or even did anything intelligent. The answer is no; you may as well be told in advance to avoid disappointment. In defence of my friend, all I can say is that Holmes hardly met with our expectations either. In fact, there were times when I wondered whether he might not be a bit of a loony.  
  
After we returned to our inn for a cup of tea and a plate of curried Elton John, Watson announced his intention of never publishing this particular case in the Strand. Little did I know that I would have the pleasure of making money out of the adventure some twenty years later.  
  
"This case is a politically sensitive one." Said the doctor.  
  
"Why?" Asked Sebastian.  
  
"Sir Bellamy Trouser-Press St Stanley Boot was both a powerful member of the Conservative party and a spiritual medium." Watson replied.  
  
"Hence," added Holmes, "he was a political sensitive."  
  
"Indeed." I said, because sometimes the situation calls for that. Sebastian just looked bored.  
  
"Yes, I should think it very likely that certain forms of speech disorder result from lesions to Broca's area in the brain." Said the great detective suddenly, after a silence of a few minutes. Everyone looked askance at everyone else.  
  
"What?" Said Doctor Watson in some consternation.  
  
"Just reading your thoughts, dear fellow."  
  
"They weren't mine."  
  
"And they weren't mine." I put in. "I don't have the habit of thinking about such things."  
  
"I was thinking about sex." Said Sebastian. Everyone turned to look at the foxhound.  
  
"Who's a clever boy then?" Said his master.  
  
[This section of the narrative is merely an aside intended as a red herring to confuse the reader.]  
  
  
  
Following the red herring - which Mr. Holmes cannily noticed, observing thoughtfully,  
  
"You know, Watson, I think that was a red herring."  
  
"No, it was curried cocker spaniel, old chap."  
  
Following it, anyway, we decided that what we needed to do was get to grips with the case and solve it once and for all. So over three pipes and a dish of curried canal worker from Surrey, we did so.  
  
"Well then," said Mr. Holmes in his most didactic manner, while sitting in his most meditative fashion and gazing upon us in a way that was purely disputable - "it seems to me that we are holding all the threads in our hands."  
  
"Better not pull, then, you'll ruin your jacket."  
  
"Yes, thank you, Sebastian. Do be quiet. No!" He cried suddenly, startling us all, "it will not do! What a woolly brain I am!" we were all considerably amused by the great detective's use of the phrase 'woolly brain'. Even Watson hid a smirk behind his moustache. Holmes looked quite offended.  
  
"What bizarre form of self-degradation would you prefer?" He demanded. Sebastian opened his mouth to recommend a policy, but before he could do so, Holmes punched him.  
  
"As I was saying," he went on calmly, "I believe that I have solved the case. Already. On my own. And most efficiently if I do say so myself."  
  
"But you've done bugger all!" Cried I, bewildered. Holmes frowned.  
  
"On the contrary, I have done a considerable amount of shag." Sebastian ducked a punch.  
  
"He's right though, Holmes. You have done bugger all. I shall have nothing to write up in the Strand."  
  
"Your stories are crap anyway." The great detective retorted irritably, and Watson wept into his moustache.  
  
"Oh, now," said Holmes, looking guilty, "I didn't mean it. I like your fiction - I beg your pardon, memoirs - very much."  
  
"Really?" Sniffed the doctor.  
  
"Yes." Mr. Holmes lied, firmly. Watson, who was obviously very gullible, cheered up.  
  
"Well, good. I very much enjoy writing those pieces, and the money comes in handy for blowing on the horses."  
  
"That's filthy!" Cried Sebastian. "Which brothel lets you blow horses?"  
  
"Be quiet, Sebastian." I told him. "Play with Sherlock." I received a very dirty look from Mr. Holmes.  
  
"Shall I pet you, my darling?" Sebastian asked his dog, getting an even dirtier look for variety. The dog barked gleefully.  
  
"You know," said Mr. Holmes, staring thoughtfully at the foxhound, "if he's a good tracker, he might be useful."  
  
"For tracking what?"  
  
"Creosote."  
  
"Where does creosote come into the case?"  
  
"Aha!" Holmes cried. "you see, I noticed and you didn't. Make a note of it, Watson."  
  
"Right-o."  
  
"Good."  
  
"And the creosote?"  
  
"Was all over the floor in Lord Bellamy's bedroom. The dog should be able to track the murderer because he will smell."  
  
"Surely one can't be arrested on charges of smelling, old chap?" Queried Watson. Holmes frowned at him.  
  
"Of creosote. He will smell of creosote."  
  
"Sherlock can track creosote."  
  
"Good!" We shall start immediately."  
  
In fact, it was three hours later, after Mr. Holmes had spent some time mentally preparing for the effort by smoking a lot and mainlining cocaine while doctor Watson looked on disapprovingly.  
  
"I am now mentally prepared for the effort." He declared, eventually. We set off at once for Boot House, stopping only for a plate of curried Westphalia Ham.  
  
"Now to let the dog smell the creosote." Said Holmes. He took Sebastian's pet and rubbed his nose vigorously in the pool of stuff, which had not yet been removed by the maid. Neither, in fact, had the body.  
  
"Now then," said Holmes to Sherlock, "track him!" He dropped the dog to the floor. Sherlock ran around the room, then jumped out of the window. We followed him.  
  
"So far, so good!" Cried Holmes. The dog set off down the road with us running after. He ran as far as the train station, then boarded the 3:25 to Switzerland, purchasing a first-class ticket. We immediately followed in a Special. Having reached Switzerland, Sherlock at once made his way to the Reichenbach Falls, which Mr. Holmes regarded with a kind of prophetic curiosity.  
  
"The criminal certainly came a long way." Remarked Watson, as we clambered, panting, up the winding path to the top of the Falls. Sherlock ran on ahead, and Mr. Holmes soon outpaced the rest of us, and was lost to our sight. I was next to reach the top of the Falls - just in time to witness Sherlock following a trail of creosote, with Holmes in hot pursuit. The dog ran up to the edge of the Falls - then - with a startled whimper, plunged over, his little legs working in the air. There was a splash and horrible thump. Mr. Holmes exclaimed in annoyance and immediately clambered up onto a ledge above me to get a better view of what had taken place. Shortly after, Watson and Sebastian arrived.  
  
"Where's Sherlock?" Sebastian gasped, looking all around. I steeled myself to give the bad news as gently as possible.  
  
"He fell off the cliff." I said. Sebastian gave a cry of grief and rage, and threw himself on the floor, sobbing. To my surprise, Dr Watson also burst into tears. He was quite inconsolable, even when I explained that it was the dog and not his friend who had fallen to its doom. The doctor was too hysterical to listen to me, and so had quite an adverse reaction when Holmes suddenly dropped down onto us from the ledge, landing on Sebastian. Watson leapt up with a cry, and promptly fainted.  
  
"Stupid dog fell off the cliff." Holmes remarked. "What's the matter with him?" He added, pointing to the crumpled form of his partner.  
  
"He thought you were dead."  
  
"Oh. Yes, we get quite a lot of that. Come on, Watson." He poked the motionless form with his stick. "Up you get, old chap. We don't have all day."  
  
"Holmes! You're alive!" Watson cried, leaping up and embracing his friend lovingly.  
  
"Not in front of the troglodytes." Holmes hissed, pushing him away. "Come on, you." He added to Sebastian, who was lying on the floor, whimpering.  
  
"He's a bit upset." I explained. Mr. Holmes was unsympathetic.  
  
"Look, we'll get you another dog in London. Now for goodness' sake." But he was interrupted by a joyous bark from somewhere above, and then, out of midair, apparently, Sherlock appeared. He had jumped from the ledge on which Holmes had been standing, and he landed directly in the detective's arms, much to the gentleman's bewilderment. Sebastian leapt to his feet with a cry.  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
"Woof!" And master and dog were reunited. Holmes spent the next twenty hours brushing dog hair from his jacket.  
  
"So the murderer has fallen off the Reichenbach Falls and to his well- deserved doom." I remarked over a plate of curried Margaret Thatcher some hours later, when we had returned to 221b Baker Street.  
  
"There is a darker purpose afoot." Replied Holmes, who was smoking his meditative pipe and hence not in a conversational mood. Sebastian had fallen asleep in the basket chair, his dog cuddled on his lap.  
  
"Is there?" Asked doctor Watson.  
  
"Yes." Replied Holmes, and not another word would he say all evening. Eventually we got tired of looking at him, and the doctor and I decided to have a game of whist.  
  
"I do enjoy a good rubber." Remarked Watson, and I was relieved that Sebastian was asleep. As I dealt the cards, I decided to ask Watson a question that had been burning in my mind for the past few days.  
  
"How do you stand him?" I nodded at Holmes, who was sitting staring blankly into the fire, pipe in hand.  
  
"Oh, well, you know."  
  
"No, that's why I asked. Don't you find him a bit of a prat?"  
  
"Not at all!" Cried the doctor. "Holmes is a very honourable man." I could not resists a knowing snort. Dr Watson looked offended.  
  
"Now, you mustn't get the idea that just because we live together, we are a little strange. Holmes and I are perfectly normal gentlemen. Are we not, Holmes?"  
  
"Shut up, you silly old bugger." I was quite shocked by this unnecessary and callous reply. Watson sniffled.  
  
"You see?" I cried. "He's a git after all."  
  
"Only when I interrupt his train of thought."  
  
"And how often is that?"  
  
"Every time I open my mouth. Norbury!" Holmes glared across at us.  
  
"Does he always treat you so rudely?"  
  
"Oh, well, it's probably my own fault, you know. Norbury!"  
  
"Tsk. You should give as good as you get, you know."  
  
"I'm really quite a peaceable individual. Norbury!"  
  
"Why do you keep saying that?"  
  
"Saying what? Norbury!" the doctor asked.  
  
"Norbury!"  
  
"I didn't say Norbury. Norbury!"  
  
"Yes, you did. There you go again!"  
  
"Really? I wasn't aware of it. How very odd. Norbury!"  
  
"Will you stop saying Norbury?" Cried Holmes, fretfully. Sebastian sat up.  
  
"Don't you like the word Norbury?"  
  
"No I damned well don't."  
  
"Oh, fair enough. I suppose we'd better stop saying Norbury then."  
  
"What's Norbury got to do with anything anyway?" I asked.  
  
"I'm sworn to secrecy. Norbury!"  
  
"Yes, but Norbury's just a place." Said Sebastian. "Why would you be upset when people say Norbury?"  
  
"Look will everyone just stop saying bloody Norbury!" Wailed Holmes. Simultaneously, Sherlock woke up and began to whine.  
  
"How very odd. All I said was Norbury."  
  
"Who said Norbury in the first place? Norbury!"  
  
"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" Said Holmes, and ran from the room shrieking. We could hear him punishing the cat in his bedroom for many hours after.  
  
"What a peculiar man." I mused. "And now I suppose he'll be in there for hours and we'll never get to the bottom of the case."  
  
But I was wrong. Less than twelve hours later, Holmes emerged from his bedroom, with a look of triumph upon his features.  
  
"I have solved the case!" He cried.  
  
"You have solved the case?" We echoed, in amazement. "How?"  
  
"With the aid of a large amount of shag!" Dr Watson whimpered; Sebastian remarked,  
  
"But Watson was here all the time!" Holmes punched him.  
  
"I meant, shag tobacco."  
  
"Can you shag tobacco?" I very nearly had to duck a punch myself.  
  
"How could I have been so stupid?" Holmes murmured.  
  
"You're a woolly brain?" Sebastian suggested. We all sniggered. Holmes rolled his eyes at our immaturity.  
  
"You shall all come back to Boot House with me," said the detective, "and I will give you an astonishing demonstration of how very good I am."  
  
Shortly afterward we arrived at Boot House, and we invited inside by the grammarless maid. Holmes immediately made his way up to Sir Bellamy's bedroom and we followed, bemused to find the body still there, and several policeman huddled around. Holmes introduced them as Lestrade, Hopkins, Gregson, and 'another one'.  
  
"They are the thick policemen he takes around to remind him he's great." Dr Watson explained in a whisper. Holmes stood on the table and addressed the group like a lecturer before a rather slow witted class.  
  
"As you know, Sir Bellamy there has been murdered horribly. And I know who did the terrible deed. Gloria!"  
  
"Gloria did it!" We cried. "Who's Gloria?"  
  
"No, no, Gloria is the maid, and a witness." The door opened, and in walked the ungrammatical maid.  
  
"Oh zur." She cried. "You knows all about it."  
  
"Know."  
  
"You don't? Then there's hope for my Peter yet!"  
  
"Yes I do know actually, and your Peter is dead."  
  
"Oh zur!" Cried the maid, and wept into her apron. Dr Watson patted her rear comfortingly. Holmes scowled at this.  
  
"Who's Peter?" I cried, baffled. Holmes smirked.  
  
"Peter Potter, the butler."  
  
"The butler did it!" We all cried. "But why?"  
  
"You may not be aware that Peter Potter is in fact an alias. The man's real name was Silver Smith!"  
  
"By God!" We exclaimed.  
  
"Further, Potter or Smith had complained for months of the ill-treatment he had received at his master's hands. But the final straw came when the lecherous Sir Bellamy propositioned Potter's wife Gloria, also known as Mrs. Silver Smith!"  
  
"Oh zur!" Wailed the maid. "It's true! We did it together, Peter and I. It was revenge, he said, for the master's feeling my backside." Dr Watson withdrew his hand with a mutter of alarm. The maid withdrew; the policemen looked impressed and applauded. Holmes bowed deeply, then rather ruined the effect by falling off the table.  
  
"I'm good aren't I?" He said when he had picked himself up.  
  
"Oh, very good, old chap." Dr Watson assured him warmly, and Sebastian received a preventative punch.  
  
Back in Baker Street, Holmes explained how he had reached his conclusions, but the explanation really wasn't interesting so I have omitted it. He concluded his remarks by saying sadly,  
  
"And thus, through lechery and generally being upper class, Sir Bellamy caused his own death, the tragic victim of a butler's revenge[1]." The great detective seemed bewildered when everyone laughed loudly at this.  
  
"What?" He demanded. "What did I say?"  
  
"That would explain the curry!" Dr Watson cried, tears of laughter running down his face. Sebastian giggled hysterically.  
  
"As I was saying," Holmes went on, trying to ignore our hilarity, "if you ever write this up for the Strand, Watson, you can call it 'The Adventure of the Butler's Revenge." Everyone laughed even more loudly. Holmes looked appealingly from one of us to the other.  
  
"What? What's funny?" A beat. "Please tell me!" He whined. Watson patted his arm.  
  
"Don't worry, old chap. It's a very good title." Holmes looked mollified but confused. Sebastian, meanwhile, had been collecting his dog.  
  
"Well then, Sherlock, we'd better be going."  
  
"Don't address me in such a familiar manner, you little git!"  
  
"I was talking to my dog!"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Goodbye, Sherlock." Said Dr Watson. Holmes was confused again.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"Woof!"  
  
"I was talking to the dog." Explained his friend. Holmes stared at the animal, shrugged, then opened the door.  
  
"Goodbye, you two." He said. "I can't say you've been much help at all but anyway I'm really good and I got it right all by myself."  
  
"Yes, well done, and may I say it was an honour to observe your methods."  
  
"Yes, you may. Goodbye." So it was that Sebastian, Sherlock and I left 221B, never to return until the sequel. Dr Watson and Mr Holmes stood in the doorway, waving us off. I turned briefly before we reached our own rooms, and saw the two of them still standing together. Dr Watson smiled and plucked at his friend's coat.  
  
"Sherlock?" He murmured.  
  
"Woof!" Replied the great detective with fervour, and sweeping his friend up into his arms, he carried him over the threshold of 221B Baker Street.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
----------------------- [1] A common term used to denote a silent but lethal fart. 


	2. A/N

Hi,  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed this and the first Domesday story! Thank you everyone for your kind and encouraging comments ( There is a third story on the way (eventually) so watch this space…well not actually this space as such, but spaces on Fanfiction.Net generally…other parodies may arrive too…lectures notwithstanding.  
  
By the way any suggestions for better titles than the ones I'm using would be warmly welcomed.  
  
Kes ( 


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